


Save A Bullet For Me

by indigorose50



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Romance, Slow Burn, Written before season 3, more tags to be added later
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-10
Updated: 2018-03-04
Packaged: 2019-02-12 21:25:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12968733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/indigorose50/pseuds/indigorose50
Summary: Anderson is very much bothered by Sherlock Holmes' "death", for reasons he can't explain. After some digging, he finds out the Truth and gets caught up in searching for and aiding this idiot detective. Both Sherlock and Anderson learn more about each other, but is it enough against Moriarty's tangled web?Takes place right after season 2. [originally written in 2012]





	1. Beer Bottles

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this for NaNoWriMo in 2012 and at the time had no clue about anything in season 3 (or 4). For that reason, a lot of stuff doesn't line up (like Anderson's first name, for example). I've edited the hell out of this and can't hold on to it any longer so, here you go.
> 
> This has not been Brit Picked. Sorry if any terms aren't quite right.
> 
> Anyway, take this off my hands. Yes it is Anderlock, don't you shame me.

It seemed to Anderson that he was sitting in an empty. At least, he might as well have been. He didn’t register the afternoon sun pouring in from the window, or the half dozen beer bottles in various degrees of verticalness littering the floor, or even the post-it note stuck to his bedside lamp that read:

> _“Staying at Elizabeth’s for a while._
> 
> _Try to get yourself sorted and I’ll do the same._
> 
> _Still love you,_
> 
> _\- Janet”_

One might think it was his wife’s departure that had caused the appearance of the bottles, but one would then be wrong.

Anderson sat on what was now his own bed, staring into the middle distance, a glazed look in his eye like he was somewhere in his own head. His hands were closed around his mobile. That morning it had gone off three times.

> _Where are you? -Lestrade_
> 
> _I know how you feel but if I have to be in, so do you. –Sally_
> 
> _How are you? –Janet_

Every time the device had rung, Anderson had come back to reality with a shock and quickly opened the phone. And every time he saw who had sent it he closed it again and went back into his head.

_What am I waiting for?_ He scolded himself, _He’s dead, gone. There are no phones in Heaven,_ He snorted, _Or Hell, more like._

He, of course, being Sherlock Holmes. Holmes, the man who had shown up out the blue one day to claim that everyone at the Yard was an idiot and obviously the butler didn’t do it. Holmes, who had taken great pleasure in insulting Anderson at every given opportunity.

Sherlock, who had jumped from Bart’s yesterday. 

Anderson had found out through Sally. He had gone in himself to see. The whole day after that text had been a blur, really. Seeing the body, Lestrade’s face, Sally’s hand over her mouth, slumping into a chair and taking deep breaths— he had left shortly afterward.

Drinking had not helped Anderson compose himself. He had taken a swig every time he thought of that idiot. It had not taken him long to get through the pack.

His mobile vibrated again and, despite his previous thoughts, a spark of hope flooded through him that _this_ would be the text. The “I’m clever and also alive” text.  Or even “Your lock is easy to pick and I’m not dead” text. Just like the other three times, however, Anderson was let down.

> _I assume you’re taking the day off. If you’re not in tomorrow, I’m sending Donovan over –Lestrade_

Anderson closed the phone. A small part of him thought it would be smart to text one of these people back, or, even better, just go to work. The world didn’t stop turning because of one death.

That was logical and correct so why didn’t Anderson get up from the bed?

Even he didn’t know.

He leaned forward and held his head in his hands. Where was this guilt coming from? None of this was his fault. He hadn’t pushed Sherlock off the damn roof or anything. Hell, he didn’t even know until an hour after it happened.

His stomach, realizing it was past noon, growled lowly. The only thing in there was beer, not even dinner from last night. Not for lack of trying, it must be noted— Anderson had attempted a light meal after getting home but it had all come back up almost immediately.

Robotically, Anderson got up and made his way to the kitchen. The part of his mind that had made this decision also decided toast would be safest. He chewed slowly, cautiously. The raspberry jam tasted very sweet after a night of bitter beer. A glob of it fell off the toast and back onto his plate. His eyes followed it, drawn to its dark red color.

He was assaulted with images: A tall man with black hair, a broken lip and bruised eye, running up to them and telling them what they had gotten wrong. The same black haired man bursting into a crime scene dramatically only to slip on an unseen pool of blood.

The same man with black hair soaked with his own blood, tick drops sliding down his face.

Anderson physically shook his head, as if to toss the memory from his mind. If he had to remember Sherlock Holmes had existed at all, it was not going to be in that way.

He choked down the rest of his toast and stood up to make a pot of coffee. Now that he was out of bed, he was more willing to start the day. He still had no intention of going to work but perhaps a walk could keep his mind off dead geniuses for a while.

* * *

 

Apparently this was not a good idea. Rather, it was not a good idea to give his legs complete control over his destination. Just on the other side of the busy London street was Saint Bartholomew’s Hospital. Some time that morning someone had cleaned up the sidewalk, which was good, since Anderson thought if he had to see _that_ again he would vomit in the street. He stared up instead, fixated on the roof.

_Is there where Watson stood,_ He wondered idly, _when Holmes jumped?_ He sighed, this was no distraction.

But as long as he was here…  

A few minutes later Anderson was on Bart’s roof. Slowly, he crept to the edge and looked down over the railing. Just yesterday, Sherlock Holmes was up here, staring down just like this, planning to jump to his death.

Anderson looked around the roof top, wondering for the first time why Holmes had chosen here, and why he had chosen to do it like that.

_Does anyone really know how a suicidal person thinks?_ He tried to stop finding questions that would never get answered, but they just kept coming.

_Why did he jump? He’s a genius; he probably knows a thousand other ways to kill himself._

_Why jump at all? The papers say he’s a fake and everyone thinks he’s been lying but why would that bother him? He never cares what people think. He just wants to know how they died, what does he care for society’s opinion on-_

Anderson stopped mid-thought. Why was he thinking of Holmes in the present tense? Holmes _was_. Holmes _didn’t_. Anderson sat on the cement, back against the low wall around the roof, running those words through his mind. _Was, wasn’t, did, didn’t, would, wouldn’t, used to, never, knew._

But despite his best efforts, his mind refused to think of Holmes as a thing now gone. Maybe in his own head, Anderson could pretend Holmes wasn’t dead. He was out there somewhere, annoying someone, solving something.

The small logical part of him from before knew, however, that that was impossible. Sherlock Holmes was dead. He was cold on a slab, probably somewhere floors below Anderson. So why did he keep coming back to the idea that he was alive?

_Because it doesn’t add up._

Before Anderson could be properly shocked at where that thought had come from, his mobile rang from his coat pocket. As he fumbled to answer it he dared to believe it was him, that he had called to say congratulations on finally figuring it out, voice dripping with sarcasm per usual. When Anderson looked at the caller ID, however, he fell back into reality.

It was his wife.

He hadn’t spared much thought to the little note on his lamp but now its words came back to him. He almost didn’t want to answer her. But, he thought of her text early that day. He guessed he owed her a reply.

“Hello?” Anderson’s voice was slightly hoarse from lack of real use. Beer bottles don’t hold conversation well and an empty flat was, well, empty.

“Finally! Where are you?”

“I’m at work, where else would I be?”

“Don’t you lie to me, I can tell you drank last night, there’s no way you made it to work this morning!”

So she was at home. Anderson rubbed his hand on this chin, sighing and trying to think of a way around her reasoning. It turned out he didn’t have to.

“Look, I just came to get a few things. If you’re not at work, can we talk? I want this, _us_ , to work but if _you_ don’t, I won’t try.” Janet sounded so resigned. Anderson almost wanted to tell her to stay, he would try this time too, he loved her and needed her. He even opened his mouth to do so.

Then he shut his phone. That was what she wanted to hear and Anderson felt awful that he couldn’t say it honestly. He did love her, or at least he cared about her, but there was no way he could keep any promise he made her now. It was better if she got what she needed from the flat and went back to Elizabeth’s. He needed time to think.

Anderson stuffed his phone back into his pocket and stood up. He looked over the edge one last time; glanced around the empty roof, and then left, that last thought still rattling around in his head.

_It doesn’t add up._

Something was definitely wrong with this whole picture. But why should Anderson care?

Both the statement and the question bothered Anderson the whole walk home.

* * *

 

Anderson managed to keep dinner down this time. He texted Lestrade letting him know he would be in tomorrow so there was no need to involve Sally. With that done he would have to go into work, no going back. He would need the kick to get out of bed in the morning, he just knew it.

He ignored Sally’s text completely. If she _really_ knew how he felt, she’d have him institutionalized.

Anderson got into bed after cleaning the bottles up and tossing the note from his wife in the bin. He curled up on his side, drawing the covers to his chin, and closed his eyes.

Sleep was a long time coming. 1 in the morning saw him lying on his stomach, the pillow bunched up under his scruffy chin. His mind was racing and he couldn’t stop it. He considered getting a nightcap but drinking hadn’t helped before.

_Maybe warm milk or some other Old Wives’ remedy could help,_ he thought warily as he reached blindly to his left to turn on his lamp. He missed in the dark, however, and his hand felt the cool screen of his mobile. Said hand rested on that for a moment then pulled in to Anderson. He turned his head to regard his phone. He stared at it for a second from behind his getting-a-little-too-long brown hair.

Part of him expected the screen to light up, a text from Janet or Sally maybe.

Another part of him knew most sensible human beings would be asleep. 

Most of him, however, was silently begging for a text from Sherlock Holmes.

_Then I could stop thinking and sleep,_ Anderson reasoned, chuckling darkly as he realized, _This is the first time I’ve actually_ wanted _him to talk to me, and it’s impossible._

He couldn’t help clutching the phone to himself and resting on his side once more, his head tucked down by the covers, hoping over and over for a text that never came. The repeated prayer did calm his mind, however, and fell asleep not long after.


	2. On Our Own

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anderson's back at work. It takes some adjustment.

The next morning, Anderson was hard at work. A call came in about a dead body found in a skip so the team was mobilized.

On the scene, Donovan was talking to the old woman who had found the body, Lestrade was setting up a perimeter to keep onlookers away, and Anderson was getting his gloves on.

As some bloke gave the old woman a bright orange blanket and a random young officer was scolded for trying to take pictures of the body with his phone, Anderson realized he had been standing in the same spot since he arrived. What was he waiting for?

_Stupid question,_ he thought bitterly, _I know what I’m waiting for and it’s not coming. Ever._

Despite this reasoning, he couldn’t help but glance at his mobile. Zero messages.

The forensics scientist sighed, grabbed his tools, and started toward the body.

It was a male, short hair dyed green, piercings on his lips and ears, one on the left eyebrow. Anderson recorded his observations, and paused.

“Alright?” He almost jumped at hearing Sally’s voice at his shoulder.

“Fine,” he answered quickly, looking back to his notes, “What’d the old lady say?”

“She saw a shoe down this alley and was walking up here to get a better look. Then she found him,” She pointed to the man in the skip.

Anderson nodded and Sally went to report to Lestrade.

Anderson examined the body carefully. The victim’s ankles were twisted at odd angles, probably broken. One eye was oozing blood and there were shallow cuts all over his arms. He was dressed in a grey hoodie, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, baggy jeans that were also cut up, and white sneakers, no visible socks.

Anderson recorded in his notes: _Both ankles broken, scratched arms, eye injury; multiple assailants likely. Possibly gang violence._

The pen paused on the paper, waiting for the next observation. But Anderson wasn’t looking at the body anymore. He was standing still again, waiting _again_. As soon as he realized this, Anderson growled and threw the pen to the ground, whipping around to scan the area. Where _was_ he? Where was the arrogant bastard to tell Anderson he was wrong before the Yarder had a chance to speak? Where was the long coat, the blue scarf, the baritone of observation?

A hand clapped down on his shoulder and this time Anderson really did jump in surprise. He spun around, hardly daring to believe—

“I know,” said Lestrade with a grimace, “But we have to figure this one out by ourselves. We’re on our own now.” The DI squeezed his shoulder and then walked back to the witness.

Somehow hearing Lestrade say it made it worse, final. But Anderson simply shook his head and got back to work, snapping unnecessarily at an officer who got too close to the skip.

As time went on they found more things to suggest this had been a gang attack. The victim, who, they learned from a school ID in his pocket was 19 year old Blake Thomson, had been shot at the base of the skull, execution style. There was a purple tag on the wall next to the skip that their camera man was taking photos of so they could try and match it to a local group.

After an hour or so, Anderson figured he had gathered enough information and starting ordering people to move the body to autopsy. As the young man was zipped into a body bag, Anderson looked around one last time for a certain someone to yell at him for doing his job wrong or maybe that he had missed something important. But there was no one. New Scotland Yard was officially “on its own”.

This was the day Anderson had hoped for ever since that arsehole had started showing up to crime scenes. This should have been a good day; Anderson wasn’t insulted for ‘contaminating’ the scene, no one had commented on the state of his marriage, he was in complete control of the evidence.

Anderson should have been happy and calm But he wasn’t. And that made him frustrated and angry.   

Bystanders were leaving now, some shaking their heads as they walked away, most with a shrug of acceptance. City people were used to foul play; it didn’t make them heartless, just hard to impress. As they left, Anderson thought he saw the back of a familiar blond. By the time his head caught up with his eyes and he turned back, the man was gone.

* * *

Over the next few weeks, Anderson tried to make his life as busy as possible. The more he was doing, the less time he had to think about how things use to be. Work was a great distraction. Without a consulting detective, the Yard was busier than ever. There was always something to do; a case to solve, murderer to find, body to be examined— no one had cause to be bored.

The only problem was when work was finished and Anderson had to go home. The flat was empty—Janet had barely contacted him since their conversation on the roof of Bart’s. He fell into a routine: get home, shower, finish up any papers he needed to, eat, go to bed. Anderson started hating his bed. The Yarders all thought his occasional bad mood and reluctance to leave at the end of the day was due to his marriage problems. Thanks to Sherlock Holmes, his love life had never been a secret to anyone at the Yard. Even now, without Holmes there to push the gossip with his deductions on Anderson, everyone assumed his marriage was rocky at best.

Anderson hated going to bed because there was nothing to distract him from his own mind. There was only sleep and quiet and that one nagging observation: _It doesn’t add up._

He didn’t claim to know Holmes very well, but he had known him long enough to know his personality. The Sherlock Holmes that had gotten information from an old lady by shouting at her that she was either drunk or a criminal just because he wanted her to talk faster would not have killed himself because of what some newspaper said. The Sherlock Holmes that had, according to Sally, held up a mob of police with a stolen handgun while still handcuffed to his best friend would not have jumped off that hospital roof because he was a wanted man.

It didn’t add up.

It didn’t make sense.

It drove Anderson mental, running it all through his head.

Six weeks after The Fall, as the Yard and newspapers called it, Anderson was still plagued with his internal investigation. The clock on his nightstand read 1:30am, its green numbers casting a glow on the wall beside Anderson’s bed. He didn’t like to look at his clock anymore. It simply reminded him how much sleep he wasn’t going to get that night. Tonight he was lying with his arms folded behind his head, not even trying to fall asleep.

_All he cared about was his drugs, the case, and his experiments._ Anderson listed. The drugs seemed to have been substituted by John Watson recently; he hadn’t seen the two apart since that string of not-quite suicides, or the “Study in Pink” as the Yarders called it. They really had an obsession with naming things. Anderson blamed Watson.

_Holmes would have loved to solve his own case, making everyone look like a fool is what he does best. But why jump at all?_

Could he have been on drugs? It suddenly occurred to Anderson that in all his ponderings, he had never considered looking over the autopsy report.

_Stupid, stupid moron,_ he chided himself, _Always look over the facts!_ He could ask Hooper for them tomorrow. Delicately, of course. Everyone knew she had had a soft spot for Holmes.

Feeling a bit better now that he had a plan for the future, he pulled the covers up, curled up on his side, and grabbed his mobile. The phone was placed on his pillow, screen dark, his hand resting lightly on top of it. This was the only way he could sleep now, waiting for a call or a text. Maybe one that would tell him he was on the right track to figuring out what was so wrong about this or that this had all been a trick and he had been the only one clever enough to realize it. Anderson knew neither of those would come, even if he _ever_ received a text, but the hope of some confirmation that he wasn’t wasting his life away with these thoughts was what he fell asleep to every night.

* * *

Although Anderson was in a better mood the next day, someone forgot to tell the sky. The whole morning had been cloudy but at noon it opened up, drenching London and her people. Most were prepared for this; not only did that morning’s cloud cover foreshadow well enough but this was also England—if you didn’t own an umbrella, you deserved to get soaked.

Anderson walked briskly. He only had his lunch hour to get from the Yard to Bart’s and back. Hopefully Molly was there to answer his questions. He was a little excited; his private case was actually _going_ somewhere.

He had briefly wondered this morning over his coffee if he was perhaps getting too into this whole thing. Many things surrounding Holmes’ death were odd, true, but what would that mean? What was Anderson hoping for? The toast popping up from the toaster jogged him out of those thoughts. There was no point in thinking like that. 

Now he had some possible information, something new to toss around his brain. He prayed he was not disappointed.

The brunet briefly stopped outside the hospital doors. _Is this how every case felt to him?_ No wonder Holmes had loved his work, Anderson could see how this rush could get addicting.

A few minutes after arriving to the hospital, he found himself in the morgue, dripping into a small puddle around his shoes. Molly Hooper came out of her office and looked justifiably confused to see him.

“Oh! Um, hello,” She said hesitantly with a nervous smile, “Can I help you with something?”

Anderson smiled back, “Yes, sorry to bother you. I was hoping I could see Sherlock Holmes’ autopsy files.”

Molly smile fell, “Sherlock’s files?”

“Yes. Could I see them?”

“I don’t… I mean… Why?” 

Anderson briefly frowned. The woman seemed alright—either she was hiding her sadness well or she was stronger than he had given her credit for. One would think the mention of her dead crush would inspire sadness, but here was more confusion than sorrow.

Anderson didn’t really know how to answer her “Something fishy’s going on here” was out the window but that was basically his reason for all of this.

“I’m looking for any…” he groped for the right word, “oddities in what happened.”

She looked at him for a bit then said slowly, “Right… I guess you could have a look. Not for too long, thought.”

“That’s alright, I don’t have long anyway.”

Molly nodded, still looking confused, and disappeared back into her office to collect the documents.

* * *

An hour later, Anderson was back at work in New Scotland Yard, slightly distracted.

At the hospital he had not mentally prepared himself for the pictures that were in the report. As soon as he saw the blood caked on Holmes’ face, he felt the bile rise in this throat. Which was ridiculous—Anderson had worked on thousands of crime scenes, why should the sight of blood affect him so horribly? He shook himself, glad Molly had left him alone to read.

As nimble fingers perused the report, Anderson learned that Holmes had not been on any drugs at the time, which for some reason made him feel relieved. If this whole thing could have been explained by Holmes on a high, he would have driven himself mental for nothing.  

Disappointingly, nothing else caught his interest in the report. He had handed it back to Molly with his thanks and left quickly.

_If he wasn’t on drugs then he knew exactly what he was doing,_ Anderson concluded as he pored over his microscope, trying to push these thoughts away for later and concentrate on the yet-to-be identified blue flake in front of him.

_Of course Holmes knew what he was doing; he_ always _knows what he’s doing._

The thought made him stop mid page flip.

The knock on the door almost made him rip the page in shock.

“Just me!” called Sally Donovan as she stepped into his lab. The Sergeant was holding two coffees and smiling softly.

“Oh, of course, come in,” Anderson was able to say as he got up and closed the door behind her.

She raised an eyebrow at him, “You alright? Hard case?”

“Very,” he muttered, half distracted, “I mean-” he put on a smile, realizing which she was talking about, “Yeah, it’s a confusing one. Just need more time.” He looked down at her hands, “One of those had better be for me or you’re crueler than I thought.”

Sally laughed at his teasing and passed him a cup, “You looked out of sorts after lunch so I came by to check on you.”

“I’m fine,” Anderson assured her, surprised to find he meant it, “Like you said; hard case. What’s been going on upstairs?”

They chatted lightly for a while about the different cases they were working on. Apparently a body had been found with writing all over it; arms, legs and shaved head covered with the words of Edger Allen Poe’s “The Raven”. Anderson commented that he’d rather have that case then than stupid blue dot under his microscope. He even let Sally have a look at it before she had to get back to work.

For the rest of the work day, Anderson’s good mood kept. Again, the weather was in direct contrast to his mood; as he left work it was raining, if possible, even harder. He pulled up the hood of his coat and ran out into the downpour to find a cab.

* * *

Anderson flopped unceremoniously onto his couch. His brown hair had become darker in its dampness and drops of water leaked from where it was plastered to his forehead down his face. A steady ‘drip’ seemed loud in the otherwise silent flat. Anderson had grown used to it since Janet had left but it still amazed him how loud small things could be if you just listened.

He kicked off his shoes and started peeling his wet socks off, draping them over the arm of the chair next to him. He stood there for a bit longer, a small puddle forming at his now bare feet. He was lost in thought—a very common occurrence now. The whole way home he had had to keep one foot in reality while his mind kept trying to drag him back into his own head. Now he was free to ponder the source of his good mood.

_Holmes always knows what he’s doing._

It was true. Sherlock Holmes had always been in complete control. Even on crime scenes where Lestrade was supposed to be in charge, Holmes more often than not had the last word.

_He must have had a plan, on that roof._ But had everything gone as Holmes had wanted? He had smashed his skull on the pavement and died; what could the plan have possibly been to result in that?

Anderson rubbed a hand over his eyes. He must be missing something. He was use to missing something in cases but Holmes was usually there to point it out, with a healthy side of mocking. Sherlock Holmes wasn’t here to help him find _this_ missing piece, however. Like the Yard, Anderson was on his own.

A low growl reminded Anderson that he had yet to have dinner. He got up, shed his jacket to let it drip from the coat hanger, and set about getting a hot shower going.

All through his shower and while he ate dinner, Anderson tried to put himself on that rooftop. He tried to imagine Sherlock’s options. On the run, thought to be a fake, about to jump—

_Did he know he was going to jump?_ Of course he did, Holmes knows everything.

_Did he know he was going to die?_ Only an idiot would think he would survive a fall like that.

_Did he want to die?_ Why else would he jump?

_Why would he want to die?_

That Anderson could never seem to answer.

Perhaps due to his abnormally productive day, Anderson got into bed and fell asleep almost immediately, barely having time to secure his hold on his phone before drifting off.


	3. In Your Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A dream spurs Anderson down a new line of thinking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I've said, I wrote this story before series 3 came out. I made up Anderson's first name since we didn't know it in 2012. I'm sticking to what I wrote back then. Just as a heads up.

Ever since Holmes’ Fall, Anderson had not dreamt at all. There were no nightmares to reinforce guilt, no nighttime revelations, not even the feeling of forgetting a dream as he woke. He figured it had something to do with staying up until he had exhausted his brain with thought. What would be the point of his brain exercising while he was asleep if he over worked it during waking hours?

That night, however, Anderson _did_ dream.

He was outside, London, morning, bright out, warm, must be summer. He looked up. Sherlock Holmes, on Bart’s roof. Anderson must be standing where John had stood, looking up at his friend. Sherlock didn’t look like a man about to die, however. To Anderson he looked the same as he did on any crime scene—scarf, coat, calculating stare.

A stare aimed right at Anderson.

They locked eyes. Anderson tried to speak, to ask why he was up there, what was the plan, the point of this whole thing. Nothing came out; in fact all he could hear was the wind in his ears. He looked around him, wondering where everyone else was, the passersby, John, the busy Londoners. He was alone.

He looked back up to Sherlock, who was shaking his head, rolling his eyes in a way that made Anderson’s blood boil, which almost made him sob for its familiarity. Very conflicting.

Keeping his eyes on Sherlock’s, Anderson started to try and move. Perhaps toward the Yard, get Lestrade’s help, but Sherlock shook his head. To Bakers Street then? No, that received a head shake as well. Anderson glared at the detective and finally took a step forward— if Sherlock wanted to communicate he would go up himself, no way did he want Sherlock coming _down_ to join him.

As soon as Anderson stepped towards Bart’s, Sherlock’s whole face turned back into its calculating mask, only this time he was raising his eyebrow. Anderson returned the gesture and took another step forward.

Beyond the rushing wind in his ears, he started to hear a high beeping noise. Anderson took his eyes off Sherlock to look down at his feet, thinking he had stepped on something. Seeing nothing, he looked back up.

To his horror, Sherlock was gone. The beeping was getting louder and there was no body on the sidewalk. Wasn’t there supposed to be? If Holmes wasn’t on the roof that meant he jumped right? Where was he, where was the blood, where was the beeping coming from? Someone stop the beeping, _I can’t think, where is he_ -

Anderson opened his eyes and found the world upside down, his sheets twisted around him. His dream-ridden brain sleepily registered how soft his carpet was. At that moment the beeping was picked up by his ears and he struggled to right himself back on his bed to turn off his alarm. He failed spectacularly and ended up sliding back onto the floor on his back. Only then, as he lay there observing the ceiling and groping for the clock on his nightstand, did the dream come rushing back to him. He sat up, clock in hand, impatiently shutting it off and placing it back on the table with a thud.

It was some time before Anderson moved from the spot his beer bottles had occupied all those weeks ago. He was trying to commit each part of his dream to memory; particularly the ending where Holmes had stopped shaking his head at Anderson.

_Even in my head he looks down at me,_ the thought made him sigh where over six weeks ago he would have grumbled in annoyance. He rubbed a hand over his face, noting the thickening stubble he had refused to do anything to above trimming. Was his subconscious trying to prod him in the right direction? Where?

In the dream Anderson has been on the ground and Holmes had protested against any direction that Anderson tried to turn. The moment he started for the hospital however…

_I have to go back_ , he concluded. This led him to thinking about his next day off, which led him to work, which led him to look at the time, which led him to realize he was _late_ for work.

Anderson shot up with a curse, getting dressed in a hurry and vaguely combing his hair before making a rush to the door. No time to put in his contacts, he grabbed his old glasses and had one foot out the door when he realized he had left his phone in his bedroom.

Panic struck him as he entered the room and did not immediately see it on his bed.

_I fell off_ , he reasoned, _it must have fallen with me_. Anderson took in a calming breath he wished he didn’t need, then set to searching. He checked under the bed, under his night stand, the pockets of the trousers he wore to bed last night, under his pillow, and under what used to be Janet’s pillow. Panic rising, he ripped off the covers and over turned the mattress. The entire time he searched, Anderson tried to rationalize his overreaction to himself: he could receive an important text from work or Janet could call or—

_Who am I kidding_ , he conceded, _I’m worried HE’S texted me and I’ve missed it._

It was stupid, illogical, and childish but Anderson really did not want to chance missing a text from Sherlock Holmes. Dead men can’t text; as a scientist, and more importantly one that worked with many bodies, he should know that and stop needing his phone close by as he slept.

This knowledge did not stop him tearing his room apart looking for his mobile.

Just when he was considering pulling the whole bed away from the wall to look behind it, Anderson bumped into his nightstand, knocking over the clock and sending it to the floor. And there, right where his clock had been resting on his nightstand, was his mobile.

He nearly screamed in frustration.

* * *

 

At Scotland Yard, Anderson’s office was full of annoyed mumbling. His dream had been confusing, he had nearly lost his phone when it had been his own _stupid_ fault he couldn’t find it in the first place, he had been very late to work and to top it off, no text had been waiting for him. From anyone.

He frowned at his papers, tapping his pen irritably against the desk. It was a few seconds before he realized he wasn’t even reading the page in front of him. With a sigh, he dropped the pen onto the desk and leaned back in his chair, stretching. He ran a hand through his hair, noting absently that it was getting long. Janet had never liked it too long. She never liked the beard either.

But the length of his hair didn’t concern him right now. His mind was on his mad search of his phone. _This is getting out of hand_ , he concluded. He had torn up his room looking for the blasted thing; he would have to deal with the mess when he got home that night.

_It should not have affected me like that. Am I going mad? No, it’s probably just because I had that dream._ Yes, the fresh imagine of Sherlock Holmes in his head must have shaken him a bit. Scenes from the dream crept to the front of his mind. This weekend, he would have to go back to Bart’s, try and figure out what he had missed.

The rest of the day was spent in the lab, coming out only to eat an early lunch. Sally must have still been busy with that Poe case since she didn’t come to see him. Pity, he could have used a cup of coffee, as well as some company.

On his way home he felt his mobile vibrate. He froze in his seat, trying to force away the automatic impulse to check. He knew he would be disappointed; best not to check until he could convince himself who is _wasn’t_ from. Only when he had paid the driver was he ready to look.

It was Sally.

_Solved Poe case, everyone’s going to the pub. Want to meet us there? –Sally_

Anderson replied with a ‘no’ and continued into his flat. Perhaps he could have gone, but he wouldn’t have been good company anyway. Too distracted. It would be hard to explain his distraction to the others.

_This obsession is definitely out of hand,_ Anderson thought as he fished for his keys.

Just as he entered his flat and locked the door behind him. his phone vibrated again, announcing yet another text. This one he checked instantly, trying to answer it before hope had time to bubble up. More texts came in as he looked.

_I don’t know if it would help you find ‘oddities’, but have you visited his grave?—Molly H_

_Sherlock’s, I mean. —Molly H_

_I could tell you where it is, if you like? –Molly H_

He hung up his coat, re-reading the messages. He had never considered finding Holmes’ grave. He didn’t even remember when the funeral had been. Not that he had expected an invite but Lestrade must have gone.

What would be the point, he asked himself as he slipped off his shoes, of going to his grave? Anderson didn’t believe in the supernatural; he was too grounded in fact and science to think that the owners of the bodies he examined could still be walking this earth somewhere. It wasn’t like he expected Holmes’ spirit to come back and explain everything.

_No point, then,_ he concluded as he entered his bedroom to ready for his shower. He tossed his mobile onto the bed before stripping and entering the washroom.

The hot water poured over him, caressing his weary body in a light massage. After the rush of the morning and his dream last night, Anderson was able to relax in the shower’s spray. And, more importantly, let his mind wander uninterrupted.

He thought back to that dream. Holmes’ had jumped over six weeks ago—what was even left to be missed?

Thinking about the jump reminded him of the funeral that had to have followed. Who had shown up? John Watson, of course. Lestrade more likely. Donovan would have been skipped over, as Anderson had. Molly Hooper? She must have gone. What of Holmes’ family?

Anderson felt a fresh pang of guilt. The detective had worked with him, or around him at least, for years and he knew almost nothing about his life other than hints of his drug abuse. Before The Fall, Anderson would not have been bothered by this. Who cared what family the Freak had? Anderson flinched when he remembered the old nickname. It seemed heartless to him now. If he had known what would become of Sherlock Holmes, would he have been a little nicer? Anderson honestly didn’t know.

His mind went back to Holmes’ grave. Who even visited it? Watson, obviously. Perhaps people who Holmes had solved a case for.

He gave his head a shake, water droplets flying out to hit the shower curtain. _It’s not worth thinking over_ , the scientist tried to convince himself, _There’s nothing to gain by going there._

Tomorrow was Saturday. He could go to Bart’s then and put his mind to rest. Plan made, he finished rinsing and shut off the shower. The yellow towel that was normally Janet’s still hung next to his green one on the rung. He ignored it and the guilt it inspired in him, and grabbed the green towel, drying himself.

With the towel wrapped securely around his waist, Anderson walked back into his bedroom. As soon as he did so his eyes fell to the phone on his bed, Molly’s texts still open, waiting for an answer. He scratched his bearded chin, considering. With a sigh of defeat he crossed the room, picked up the phone and typed back:

_Thanks for the idea. Where is it?_

* * *

 

The next day was hot. Anderson pulled at his shirt, wishing he had thought to bring a water bottle or something. At the moment, he hated his beard. Sweat fell from his brow. Maybe it was a bad idea to walk to the hospital. He took off his glasses to rub at his eyes tiredly. The dream had revisited him last night, much shorter than the first time. This time he had immediately started for the hospital doors. A crack behind him had stopped him and for one dreadful second he thought it was the sound of Holmes landing on the sidewalk. Upon waking, however, he realizing it was only his phone hitting his nightstand as it landed on the floor.

When Anderson had set out that morning, he figured the walk would wake him up more. To his credit, he _was_ more awake—if a bit sweatier than he’d like.

He arrived at Bart’s, relishing the lobby’s air conditioning. Trying not to attract attention, he made his way through the building and up to the roof. Just like his first visit, Anderson walked to the edge and looked over the railing. Nothing was different; same people moving about their day, same distance from the ground, same realization that Sherlock Holmes had had this same view right before his death.

He left the edge and did a walk-round of the roof. Nothing of note was there, nothing you wouldn’t expect to see on a roof. Disgruntled, Anderson went back to the railing and looked down at the pavement. What was his subconscious hinting at?

_It was just a dream, why did I listen?_

“Oh look, an audience,” he muttered deadpan when a few people on the ground stopped to look up at him, “How lovely.”

_Expecting a show, no doubt._

Show.

A Show?

Anderson looked back around the roof. No, it couldn’t be possible. Though this _was_ Holmes he was talking about. Everything about that man seemed to be clever or mysterious.

_Impossible. The police would have found evidence._ But if it was _true_ , then it changed everything.

Anderson did a more thorough scan of the rooftop. There was nothing to suggest it but the more Anderson thought about it the more sense it made.

_Why else make a big deal about his jump? Why else pick this spot? Why else make everything so dramatic?_

The whole thing, Anderson couldn’t help but think, was a show. An act.

And if it had been a show—that meant someone had been watching.

There was no evidence, nothing to suggest anyone had been up here with Sherlock Holmes. As far as everyone knew, Sherlock had killed himself because his reputation had been ruined. After everything was said and done, and more evidence had been gathered, it had been concluded that none of his cases had been staged. _Holmes_ knew he had not been a fake, and now _everyone_ else knew too.

No report and no witness had said Sherlock Holmes had been with someone up here. But it just fit together in Anderson’s head so well that he couldn’t help but hold on to it. Everything suddenly made sense—why Holmes had jumped, why nothing added up, it even kept with Anderson’s belief that Holmes always knew what he was doing.

Anderson left the hospital in a daze, only half concentrating on where his feet were taking him. Only after he had, on automatic reaction, hailed a cab and the driver asked him where to go did he snap out of it.

Anderson hesitated and then had to pull out his phone before answering.

* * *

 

Maybe it was because of how many times he had zoned out but it didn’t take the cab long to reach the cemetery Molly had texted him about last night. Just as he was trying to remember when exactly he had given the girl his number, the taxi came to a halt.

“You want me to wait here?” The cabbie asked.

“No, thank you,” Anderson answered. He got out, paid the other man, and watched the car drive back down the narrow road through the cemetery.

It took Anderson about 10 minutes to find the right grave. Perhaps he should have asked Molly but no matter—there it was. Dark and polished stone, SHERLOCK HOLMES engraved on its face. It was surreal to see: the tombstone of a man who had been part of Anderson’s life for so long, even if he was an annoying part.

No flowers decorated this grave. _Just as well,_ Anderson decided, _probably thinks they’re useless anyway. Sentiment._ He tried picturing how the funeral might have gone. Did anyone cry? Watson might have, that old woman from their building _must_ have.

The thought made him remember the ‘Study in Pink’ case again; the woman who had left her phone for them to find, whose password had turned out to be her stillborn daughter, Rachel. _“That was ages ago, why would she still be upset?”_

Anderson smirked at the memory. _How long is ‘ages’, Holmes? Would you find it stupid if someone cried over you now, after so many weeks?_

“Empty.” A voice to the right of Anderson made him jump and turn quickly.

Standing there was a tall, slightly chubby man in a suit, a little older than Anderson.

He carried an umbrella at his side.

“What did you say?” Anderson demanded of the stranger.

“The gravestone,” The other man said, nodding towards Holmes’ headstone, “It looks empty. No flowers like those on these others.” He used the umbrella to indicate the stones around them, “Don’t you think it looks empty?”

“I…” Anderson had literally no idea what to say. Who was this man? Obviously someone who knew Holmes, “I suppose so. Sorry, who are you?”

“Why do you suppose he jumped?” Anderson was more than a bit taken aback by the question. Did he dare tell this person what he really thought? No, he would sound like a lunatic. But, somehow, he felt he should tell this man. Maybe because he was most likely a person Anderson would never see again, or maybe Anderson wanted to hear how his theory sounded out loud and might never get an opportunity like this again.

“I… I think he did it… _for_ someone.” He tried to explain, “I think he jumped because he was acting for someone.” He said this all without looking at the older man, keeping his eyes fixed on the tombstone in front of him.

The stranger said nothing. Anderson turned to look at him. To his surprise, the man was smiling.

“I believe you and I have some things to discuss, Scott Anderson,” He said, sweeping a hand to his side. Anderson glanced behind him to see a black car parked a little ways away on the dirt road.

 “If you would please follow me.” The stranger started for the car, twirling his umbrella as he walked. Anderson stared after him for a few seconds. Get into the strange car with the stranger, or stumble forever in his ideas about Sherlock Holmes.

Scott Anderson would look back on this day and realize how much the decision to follow the man had changed his life—and then he would realize how Molly got his phone number.


	4. A Deserved Talk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft speaks with Anderson, but are they things Anderson WANTS to hear?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I've been slow to update this. Since I wrote it for NaNoWriMo, there's a lot of editing to do. Please enjoy!

No one spoke on the ride to wherever-they-were-going. Glass divided the front seats from the back, the driver never once looking back at his passengers. The stranger sat straight in his seat, staring ahead. For the first 10 minutes, Anderson was determined to copy him, sitting up at attention. After a while he started to tire of it, and relaxed in his seat, staring out the window. He didn’t recognize where they were and couldn’t guess where they were going. Upon entering the car he had asked the older man how he knew Anderson’s name, to which the man replied “All in good time.” As this was less-than-helpful information, Anderson figured he wouldn’t get anything worth hearing from the other man until he was good and ready. Anderson didn’t ask any more questions.

For lack of anything better to do, Anderson kept his phone in his hand and checked it every few seconds. He didn’t care if the other man was watching, he seemed to know of Anderson already. A strange man appearing at Holmes’ grave—this was not coincidence. Something was going on here.

Eventually they did stop. The driver came around and opened the older man’s door, leaving Anderson to slide out after him. The car had taken them to an old building. Its windows were all cracked, the ones that still had glass in them anyway, and the roof was missing many tiles.

“This way, if you please, Dr. Anderson,” Anderson took his eyes off the building to settle them on the mysterious man who started walking towards the doors. Anderson followed him through the double doors or the run down place, passing two men in dark suits.

As soon as he stepped through, the doors slammed shut, leaving him and the stranger alone. The stranger, standing a little ways in front of Anderson, hung his brolly on his arm and summoned a small book seemingly out of nowhere.

“Dr. Scott Anderson,” He read from it, “Libra, has worked for New Scotland Yard for 8 years, married to Mrs. Janet Anderson.” The man smirked cruelly and added, “Not for much longer, I predict.”

“Who are you?” Anderson demanded, annoyed that his wife’s name had been brought into… whatever this was.

“Someone who never expected to speak to you like this,” said the other, putting the book away, “Someone who has been watching you closer than he thought he would need to.” He smirked again, “Someone who _clearly_ underestimated you.”

“I don’t understand,” Anderson said, frustrated, “Why have you been watching me? Why were you at Holmes’ grave?!”

“You are upset, I understa-”

“Of _course_ I’m upset!” Anderson interrupted, “If you’ve been watching me, why suddenly decide to talk _now_?”

“Because you are the only one asking all the right questions.”

Anderson was, again, taken aback

“It is not hard to guess what you are thinking about day to day,” the man continued, “You fall asleep waiting for text messages, look around crime scenes in places most others would not think to look, and have unnecessarily visited Bartholomew’s Hospital three times in the past seven weeks. I think it is fairly obvious what you are thinking of, Dr. Anderson,”

The scientist gulped nervously, “Then enlighten me.”

“Sherlock Holmes and the suspicious circumstances surrounding his death.”

“There is nothing suspicious about it. He jumped. He’s dead. End of story.”

The man gave him a condescending grin, “I thought he was ‘acting for someone’. You said so yourself.”

Anderson chose his next words carefully, “So are you… saying you believe me?”

“I’m saying,” the stranger said slowly, almost as if he were reluctant to say this, “that you are right.”

Silence took over the conversation then. The stranger was giving Anderson a hard look, almost resigned. Anderson was lost all over again.

After a few minutes, Anderson finally gathered himself enough to ask, voice calm yet full of puzzlement, “Who are you?”

“Mycroft Holmes,” said the man, “And I believe my younger brother did not give your intelligence enough credit. As I said, you were the only one to go asking questions. You see what is wrong with my brother’s death and I feel that grants you a small reward.”

_Sherlock’s older brother has been watching me sleep_ , was, oddly enough, Anderson’s first thought.  “A reward?”

“Information. Confirmation. Answers.”

“How can you know all this?”

“I have my ways.” came the coy reply, “Now what do you wish to know?”

It was almost overwhelming. Weeks of turning questions over in his head, driving himself mad with ideas and theories, sleepless nights ended by a mobile phone and now here were his answers; proof he wasn’t crazy.

At the same time, this felt too easy. Why come along now and present information? Something told Anderson to pick his questions with care. Depending on what he asked, Mycroft might decide his brother was right after all and Anderson wasn’t worth his time.

He stood in place for a while, running his fingers through his beard as he did so. What should he know already? Had he already been given hints? Sherlock’s jump had been an act—someone had wanted him to publicly commit suicide. Sherlock must have known that; as already established, he always knew what he was doing. But if Sherlock knew all that, then maybe he _had_ been prepared and…

_“Empty.”_

No. No, that was impossible. No one was _that_ clever, not outside the story books.

But, if anyone could have done it, Sherlock Holmes would be Anderson’s first guess.

He looked Mycroft right in the eye, hoping against hope that this was the right question, “Where is Sherlock Holmes?”

Mycroft considered Anderson for a moment, face blank, looking the man up and down. Then, to Anderson’s mixed shock and relief, he said, with a bit of a smirk, “Good question.”

Anderson gaped, hardly daring to believe it. Sherlock Holmes was _alive_? It had all been a _trick_?! He shut his jaw with a sharp click and cleared his throat, trying to push away his amazement for later. He had never found Holmes amazing before but perhaps he ought to start. He came back to reality to find Mycroft fully smiling at him, amusement evident on his face.

“Who was the jump for, then?” Anderson asked to cover up his idiotic display.

“A man named Moriarty. But pay him no mind; by all accounts, he’s dead.”

“What was the point?”

“Perhaps you should ask him yourself.”

Anderson’s eyes widened and he whipped around, expecting to see Sherlock Holmes come walking through the door. There was no one, however. Anderson spun in place, looking all around the empty floor. A chuckle from Mycroft had him turning back to him.

“Not that simple, I’m afraid,” Mycroft explained. His posture had relaxed somewhat, Anderson noted. He was leaning on his umbrella, other hand in his pocket. It made Anderson think the hard part was over—that he had proved himself worthy of this conversation.

“Moriarty was a master criminal. He had connections everywhere, people almost as dangerous as himself with their own operations around the world. Sherlock is out there now, destroying the web. It could take him years to do so. By himself, at least.” Here Mycroft raised an eyebrow at Anderson.

“W- You want _me_ to find him?” Sputtered Anderson.

“You’ve made it this far, have you not?” reasoned Mycroft, “You are a different man than the one who worked with him months ago. You could be of some use to him, though he may not think so at first.”

“Bu—”

“And it should be noted,” Mycroft continued, “that _I_ know exactly where he is. If you are to prove you can be useful, you must find him on your own.”

Nothing was adding up right again. Why him? Why _Anderson_? He hadn’t changed _that_ much, had he? “What about Watson?” He argued, “If you think Hol- Sherlock needs someone with him, why not kidnap Watson and explain all this?”

Here Mycroft frowned, and Anderson could have sworn a look of regret crossed his face. “My brother wishes for all this to be kept secret from Dr. Watson. I am not at liberty to say why,” he added quickly when Anderson opened his mouth.

“What about Lestrade?”

“Are you saying you don’t want to help my brother? In that case, we can end our conversation now and save us both time—”

“No!” The outburst surprised Anderson. Either Mycroft had been expecting this or he was good at hiding shock. The man was now smirking smugly again.

“I— What about my job?” Anderson argued, “I can’t just run off after your brother and quit my job.”

“If you find him, I will make sure everything is taken care of.”

“How can I trust you?”

Mycroft gave him a look that clearly said ‘Think about what you just said’.

How could Anderson trust _anything_ Mycroft was saying? How could he believe Sherlock was out there somewhere, very much alive?

But then, if he walked away from this now, how could he ever know for sure? The questions he had entering that cemetery would still nag at him, invading his sleep, ruining his work.

Anderson straightened, holding his head up high, “I suppose you won’t even send your own agents to look after him? You clearly have enough.”

“He doesn’t work well with just anyone, you are aware.”

“I’m one of them.”

“The Scott of seven weeks ago _was_ , yes.”

When he could think of nothing else the man in front of him hadn’t already, apparently, thought of, he asked, “Do I have time to decide?”

Mycroft smiled, “Of course, Dr. Anderson. It is a big decision to leave your familiar life behind on a mad hunt.” He gave Anderson a knowing look.

Anderson gulped again, “Right. Can I go now?”

Mycroft’s eyes shifted to something behind Anderson and he turned to see the doors open, the driver standing there, waiting.

“You have as long as you like, Mr. Anderson. But the sooner you leave, the longer you have to search.” With a nod, and a twirl of his brolly, Mycroft Holmes walked away, leaving through a second exit away from the car.

* * *

The drive back to his flat was much shorter than the drive to the warehouse. Anderson chalked it up to himself being lost in thought, again.

The question of ‘why him’ had been answered twice that afternoon. “Asking the right questions” did not seem like a good characteristic to look for in a man expected to be one half of a crime fighting duo. Personally, Anderson would prefer a man who knew his way around a gun. Anderson was of course skilled in bullet ballistics and could tell the make and model of a gun but as for shooting one in combat, he had less than no experience.  

And had he really changed that much in seven weeks that he and Holmes could actually work together? Anderson could freely admit now, if only to himself at this point, that Holmes was brilliant but did that really effect how they could work together?

He thought about the man Holmes _did_ get along with. When Watson had shown up at the scene of the fourth ‘suicide’, Anderson had been shut out the room with sarcasm but he still heard Watson’s ‘brilliant’ and ‘fantastic’ declarations. Maybe that _was_ what separated them? Watson had believed in Holmes from the start, was that all it took? Just a willingness to see past the rude, selfish prat and understand that the detective was right?

The car stopped and the driver came around to open Anderson’s door. Anderson thanked the man, who silently got back into his seat without glancing at him.

Inside his flat, Anderson mindlessly made coffee and sat at the table, sipping it and thinking over everything. What would it mean to go chasing criminals with Holmes? Lots of running would be involved, he expected. Money, fake IDs, guns—his mind was trailing back to crime dramas now. No way it was really like that, right? Explosions every other day, no sleep, sometimes no meal for days—it couldn’t be _that_ dramatic, could it? What was Holmes doing to find these people?

_I’ll never find out sitting here, that’s for certain,_ he reminded himself. Was it worth the risk? His life, his job, his marriage?

As he drained his cup, his mobile buzzed. His heart skipped. Now that he knew Holmes was definitely alive somewhere, it was entirely possible that this could be him— so he felt no shame when he scrambled for his pocket and opened the text.

It was Janet.

_We need to talk this out. What do you want to do?_ _–Janet_

Anderson stood still, the phone held loosely in his hand. If only she knew what weight that question now held. What did he want to do about his marriage? What did he want to do about this new information on Holmes?

His stared at the screen for a long time before replying:

_Do I have time to decide?_


	5. Slow Reaction Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An investigation makes Anderson realize how much he's been underestimating himself.

Anderson was just finishing up paper work of one of Dimmock’s cases when a call came in that Lestrade needed him for yet another crime scene. He sighed as he packed up his medical bag. Before, the cases were a nice distraction. Now he really needed to think about the big choices his life had been presented as of late. It was inconvenient that the crime population of London had chosen _now_ to kill anyone who looked at them funny.

Sally met him at the entrance to NSY and drove them to the scene, which turned out to be a rather nice looking home. It was an old home that showed its age with cracked paint on the walls and creaky floorboards, but it was easy to tell the family that lived there were old money. They had probably inhabited the house for generations.

Lestrade had gotten there before Anderson and Donavan and their people had already set up boundaries, keeping the small crowd at bay.

Anderson was escorted to where the body had been found—the front sitting room, propped up against the fireplace. The first immediate thought that came to Anderson was that there was no question how he died—a fire poker was jammed through his ears, in one and out the other. His gut feeling, on the other hand, told him there was more to this picture.

“The family knows him,” Lestrade said, joining Anderson in the sitting room, “Anthony Davis, 47, family friend from the father’s work. We’ll get an ID to confirm but it’s not like it’s a big mystery how he died, eh?”

Anderson hummed non-committedly and knelt down next to the body. Something was off here, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it.

“Do you smell something burning?” He asked the Detective Inspector.

Lestrade furrowed his eyebrows, “That’s just the fire place.”

But Anderson shook his head slowly, “No, they wouldn’t light a fire in the middle of July.”

He pulled on his gloves and started observing Anthony Davis, trying to concentrate less on the smell and more on the body. The man had black hair—too black, it was obviously dyed. He wore a gray jacket with a dark red shirt, black trousers and shiny black shoes. A man of money, then. A glance at his hand proved he was single, but there was a tan line on his ring finger so possibly he was recently divorced. Anderson pulled a condom out of one pocket and a mobile out of the other, both of which he put in evidence bags.

He could still smell the burning, and it was definably not the fireplace. He was about to see if they could get prints off the poker when he saw what gave him the off feeling—the dark red shirt, in the spot where ones navel would be, was darker, almost black.

Anderson pulled up the shirt carefully, and froze when he saw it. It was a small electrical device with dozens of wires, glowing red at the ends, poking out.

Purely on instinct, he jumped up, grabbed a startled Lestrade by the arm, and pulled him from the room. Before he had time to shout a warning to the other officers or explain what was happening, the body exploded. He and Lestrade were thrown to the ground, debris flying over them.

Anderson automatically covered his head with his arms, the gravel of the front entry way digging into his cheek. After a few seconds that felt as long as hours, he could hear people shouting. Their voices were muffled, almost as if he were in a tunnel. There was also a ringing in his ears that wasn’t going away. Slowly he picked his head up. People were running left and right, pointing and yelling—some barking orders and some just panicking. He knew he should get up, he had been close to the house, and he had to get away, or go back in and help. He needed to see who had gotten caught by the IED.

Although it took him a whole minute to push the front door off his legs, Anderson did get up. He was a little shaky at first but as he took in the scene around him he soon forgot his unstableness. The blast had caused the ceiling of the sitting room to collapse, the room above it falling in. The glass in the window had shattered and part of the sitting room wall was now pressing against the perfectly trimmed hedges that surrounded the old house.

The ringing was still clogging his hearing but he was starting to make out some words. Lestrade was already up; blood covering his knee, giving orders. Anderson wasn’t sure exactly what those orders were and he found he didn’t care.

Jumping over a small pile of rubble that partially blocked the front doorway, Anderson turned to what had been the front sitting room. The opposite side of the room was mostly taken up by the room above but the fireplace was largely unaffected. The walls that were still standing were smattered with blood, but Anderson was unperturbed. Two officers remained in the room. One was limping and had her hand braced against the entry way to the room. The other was on the ground, unconscious. Anderson rushed to him first and rolled him onto his side to check the damage.

The officer must have just banged his head on something because there was no blood anywhere on him, save for a broken lip. At least the man was breathing, that was something.

Anderson gave him a light shake, “Hey!” He called loudly. He almost heard himself, another bit of good news. The officer didn’t respond but physically he seemed alright so Anderson hooked an arm around him and, with an “Up you get!” got the man to his feet.

He shook his head when the female officer moved to help him—she needed to keep pressure off that foot. The three of them hobbled out of the room and then out of the house. Someone had called for more ambulances; their wailing sirens, even far off, were breaking through Anderson’s shot ears. Another officer helped the female with the hurt ankle to a safe spot on the sidewalk well away from the house while Donovan assisted Anderson with the unconscious man. When both were safely out of harm’s way, Anderson felt his pocket vibrate.

As he knelt in front of injured woman to tend to her ankle, he pulled out his phone. One text:

_He would have complained at your slow reaction time but I say you have room to improve. If you decide to take up the chase, I believe it’s fair to warn you that you could get more practice. –MH_

* * *

 

An hour later found Anderson in the back of an ambulance, watching the rich family on the other side of the yard. The father was holding his daughter, a red haired girl of about six, while his wife spoke sternly with their son. The boy had to be around 14 years old and was crying hysterically. Anderson was too far out of ear shot to hear what was happening but it must be important because while one officer was trying to calm the angry woman, the other was hurriedly writing on his notepad.

Anderson had been given a cup of admittedly awful tea and a blanket an alarming shade of orange. The cut on his cheek had been seen to, but only after he had been sure the two officers were alright. The unconscious officer most likely had a concussion and was rushed to Bart’s. The woman had torn something in her ankle but other than that was fine. Compared to them, he felt he should be made to walk back to NSY. A cut on the cheek and a few bruises earned him tea and comfort? Ridiculous.

Lestrade made his way over to Anderson, “Got your hearing back yet?” He said, raising his voice just in case.

“Yeah,” Anderson replied, not taking his eyes off the crying boy.

Lestrade stood next to Anderson, crossing his arms, “Hear what happened?”

“Oh let me _guess_ ,” Anderson drawled, annoyed, “Davis’ failed married inspired him to take out his frustrations on the boy—sexually, hence the condom. The boy fought back and stabbed him with the poker, lucky shot. When he realized what he had done, he scraped together a way to get rid of the body in what he thought was most effective. From some crime show or another he must have gotten the idea to rig an elementary bomb and tried it out on Davis’ body. He had no way of knowing it would destroy half his house and is, understandably, very upset.”

Really, all that had come from the top of his head and he had haphazardly pieced together the evidence from the body and the family across form him. He was more focused on the text than anything and the idea that his life could change so much made everything around him feel less important.      

Lack of response from Lestrade prompted Anderson to look over at him. The DI was staring at Anderson, eyes wide.

“You _sure_ no one told you?”

“I— You can’t mean I’m _right_?”

“Yeah, you are,” Lestrade scratched his stubble, a smile working his way onto his face, “Blimey, mate, where did you pull that from?”

“I just…” Flabbergasted, Anderson looked for the right word, “… observed.”

“Right, well,” Lestrade clapped him on the back, “Thanks for getting me out of there.”

Anderson smirked up at him, “Don’t let it happen again.”

Lestrade laughed, removing his hand. “No promises!” he called as he turned back to the other officers.

Anderson watched him go, and he couldn’t help but try and picture Sherlock Holmes and Greg Lestrade—taking out the world’s finest criminals. Suddenly it seemed dangerous. Holmes and Lestrade were close but could Lestrade really be useful to the consulting detective? He hadn’t noticed the same things Anderson had before the IED went off.

_“You are the only one asking all the right questions”_

If he was asking the right things, was he also starting to look in the right places for those answers? Everything he had internally logged as important information, coupled with what he had seen from the rich family, had led to him to the apparently correct conclusion. A few things had been educated guesses. Was this how Holmes solved his cases?

_“Perhaps you should ask him yourself”_

Perhaps Anderson would.

* * *

 

There was just one thing Anderson had to face before he could even entertain the idea of following in Sherlock’s footsteps: Janet.

He had loved her, and maybe he still did, but he knew he wasn’t in the best place right now. Maybe once this whole Sherlock business was over? No, it wasn’t fair to make her wait, especially when he couldn’t even explain properly what he was doing. Besides if what Mycroft had texted him yesterday was true, it was possible he might not even come back.

Anderson paused in the middle of his paper work. It had been a whole week since his first meeting with the elder Holmes and Anderson had never even considered the possibility that running after Sherlock could be _that_ dangerous.

He rubbed a hand over his eyes and sighed in frustration. _This is Sherlock bloody Holmes; of course I could get hurt._ Mycroft had even explained that Sherlock was chasing criminals that were part of a complex web. Really, Anderson should have realized this earlier. It made him feel even more under qualified to work with Sherlock Holmes; Anderson had no fighting skills of any kind, he had never killed anyone before—

_Is he out there right now,_ killing _people? Criminals, sure, but is he killing them or just finding them? No, Mycroft wouldn’t have given me so much warning if we were just_ finding _the bad guys- we would kill them too._ Strangely enough, Anderson found he was morally fine with that. He supposed it was vigilante work— Sherlock Holmes wouldn’t be on their trail unless he was sure they were part of the web. And Sherlock Holmes always knew what he was doing, no mistakes.

Anderson began his work again, trying to concentrate. He could ponder all he wanted at home.

In his flat.                                                                                               

Alone.

Which led him to think about Janet again.

_Dammit!_ He leaned back in his chair, his face in his hand, pen forgotten on his desk on top of his mound of papers. There was no way he could do his paper work while all these thoughts were distracting him.

A distraction that _was_ welcome came in the form of Sally knocking on his door, holding two cups of coffee.

“Need a break?” She asked, holding up one of the cups.

He smiled in relief, “Please.” He left his desk to take the offered coffee.

“How do you feel?” Donovan asked, taking a seat in the guest chair, “Didn’t get to see you before you left yesterday.”

“I’m alright,” Anderson assured her, taking a well-deserved sip from his cup, “Little sore this morning but nothing a few pills couldn’t fix.”

“And your hair?”

He narrowed his eyes, confused, “What’s wrong with my hair?”

“You haven’t noticed?” She giggled, getting up and moving towards him, “I think the back of your head got the worst of it.” Her hand came up and brushed behind his ears, running her fingers through his hair. He reached behind there too and noted he was a few hairs shorter in some places. He must have been more zoned out last night in the shower than he thought to not notice.

“I guess that’s the world’s way of telling me it’s too long, then,” Donovan laughed at that and he chuckled with her. 

They talked easily for a while; exchanging their versions of what happened yesterday, complaining about their work load— it was really quite relaxing to Anderson’s mind.

Then Sally asked, a little reluctantly, “How are things with Janet?” leading Anderson’s thoughts back where they had been before Donovan came in.

“I haven’t spoken to her in a few days.” The scientist admitted, shifting where he stood.

“Not even about yesterday? She must’ve seen it in the paper; she’ll want to know you’re alright.”

“My name’s not in the papers. She won’t know I was in any danger.”

“If she hears it from someone else, she’ll be furious,” Sally cautioned.

Anderson nodded wordlessly, draining the last few drops of his coffee before crushing the cup. “We should get back to work,” he said, tossing his cup into the bin as he passed it and standing behind his desk once more. 

Donovan threw her empty cup in the bin as well then turned to face him, “Scott.”

He raised an eyebrow, silently telling her to go on— if she used his first name, she was serious.

“I know things have been hard the past few weeks. You’ve been out of it a lot and I know it’s because of Janet.” _Is that what everyone thinks?_ “You can’t avoid her like this. Just talk to her.”

When he looked away uncomfortably, Sally leaned across the table and gave him a friendly peck on his cut cheek, “I promise it will be easier than running from a bomb.” 

Anderson grimaced as she walked toward the door to leave, “You sure about that?” 

Donovan didn’t even turn around as she called back, “Call your wife, Anderson.” Then she was gone.

Anderson side eyed his mobile sitting on the desk next to his papers. _Easier said than done_. But at least it made the paper work he had yet to do look more appealing, and he set to doing that.


End file.
